


A Song and Dance

by NomDeGuerre



Series: Parallels [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen hates everything, F/M, ends with stammering dorks, except Evelyn, getting closer to a relationship!, orlais is the worst, starts with angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8621914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomDeGuerre/pseuds/NomDeGuerre
Summary: Evelyn is an idealist who wants to save as many lives as possible. Cullen is a soldier with a hammer to whom most problems look like nails. Both of them are stuttering dorks.





	

Orlais is just as terrible as Cullen expects.  He had never been one for showy frivolities, very much preferring honesty and simplicity—his Fereldan farmboy upbringing showing, he expects, along with the austerity of his Templar service—but the Orlesian court makes his stomach turn and his skin twitch.  There’s a razor-edge buried beneath the sparkle and gilt; everything is hidden faces and hidden agendas and hidden knives.  It is too like the illusions the demons had thrown at him in Kinloch.  Lies and malice dressed up in beauty.

Even the name they have for it is distasteful.  ‘The Grand Game’—as if any good, sane person would play a game where the pawns are actual people and the consequences literal death.  All these nobles move the poorer and the weaker about, sacrificing lives that aren’t theirs to sacrifice, and all for ego and fleeting power.  Cullen hates it.  And he hates that they’ve pushed the Inquisitor into it, a reluctant player and a target.

He hates that they’re forced to participate, he hates that they need the court’s support, hates that they have to wear these stuffy outfits.  He misses his armor,  _ any _ armor.  He’d trade this jacket for his old Templar plate, even.  As heavy and hot as the plate had been, at least it had been protection.  He feels exposed and vulnerable in the fine red wool,  _ itching  _ with the knowledge that he is being watched by all these vipers.  His hand keeps rubbing against the blue silk sash at his waist, reaching for a sword that isn’t there.

Cullen makes the most tactical decision that the situation allows, and stands with his back to the wall and half-hidden by a large potted plant.  It doesn’t keep away the circling buzzards of the court—those who wish to probe the Inquisition for weakness, or those so desperate for power in the Game that they’ll risk associating themselves with a group the court hasn’t quite decided whether to endorse or vilify—and he ends up feeling more cornered than anything.

He’s pitifully glad when the Inquisitor stops by to speak to him, parting the tittering, simpering crowd— _ Maker, how many people does it have to be to count as a crowd? Six?  Eight? _ —easily and approaching him with a mild smile.  “Inquisitor.”

“Commander,” she says, voice carefully modulated to a low husk.  Leliana had worked with her on it, so she wouldn’t feel quite as self-conscious about her damaged voice.  Cullen had overheard a couple courtiers talking about her, about her ‘smoky’ voice.  One catty woman had described it as ‘more appropriate for a brothel than a ball’.  Cullen had gritted his teeth at the disrespect, but he hadn’t seen who’d made the comment and Josephine would have frowned on him snarling at anyone, anyway.  “May I steal you a moment from your company?”

“Of course,” Cullen says, a little too quickly.  He bows very perfunctorily to the nobles arrayed around him and steps quickly away from his corner, following the Inquisitor as she shifts to an appropriate distance to dissuade eavesdroppers.

“Anything to report?” the Inquisitor asks, eyes passing over their surroundings sharply.

“Nothing unusual,” he replies.  “But it would be easier to keep watch if people would stop talking to me.”

A beat, then his eyes widen.  “Not—not  _ you _ , of course…”

“You don’t like the attention?” the Inquisitor inquires dryly, apparently having taken no offense.  Cullen grimaces.

“No,” he says firmly.  “I’ve never liked attention being drawn to me, even as a child.  It’s always seemed distracting.  Worrying about how people see me, rather than how best to do my job.”

The Inquisitor looks amused.  Cullen wonders why, but loses the thought when she glances around again and sobers.  “There’s been an incident with the elven servants.  A couple deaths.  It seems likely that it’s part of some plot, but whose is a different matter.  It wouldn’t surprise me if half the people here had some nefarious scheme running tonight.”

“Only half?” Cullen asks acerbically.  “Orlais must be losing its touch.”

The Inquisitor’s lips twitch, but there is true worry in her eyes.  “It may be difficult to extract the plot against the Empress from all the other plots.  If I can’t—”

“You will,” Cullen says.  She looks at him with her unreadable eyes.

“Of course,” she says finally, and looks away.  They watch the Empress nod regally to someone unseen across the hall.  “So, who do you think the Inquisition should support?”

Cullen is startled into answering.  “Gaspard’s claim to the throne is legitimate.  And with the crisis at hand, is may be best to have a leader with a military history, who commands the loyalty of the chevaliers and can lead the Orlesian army against Corypheus.”

“Celene will never give up the throne to him,” the Inquisitor murmurs.  “If Gaspard becomes emperor, it means Celene is dead.”

Cullen clears his throat.  “Well, yes.”

The Inquisitor’s expression flutters, before she regains control of herself and schools it back into the flat, calm affect Josephine had counseled her on.  “Oh.  Well, your points are noted, Commander.  I suppose I should go check in with Leliana and Josephine.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he says, feeling like he’s disappointed her somehow.  Yes, to allow the plot against the Empress would be morally questionable, at best, but leaving both Gaspard and Celene alive would only maintain the strife currently tearing Orlais apart.  One of them would have to die, if peace is to have a chance.  And with Corypheus and his Venatori and Red Templars looming over them all, Cullen knows that military might will be the Orlesian Empire’s best defense.  Gaspard is the sound choice.

“Are you well, Commander?” Solas’s cultured voice slips smoothly through the ambient noise of the ballroom.  Cullen glances to his left to see the elven apostate pace calmly to his side.

“Well enough.”

“Mm,” Solas hums, eyes following Evelyn’s retreat.  His elegant mien is slightly spoiled by the absurd hat he wears over his bald head.  Cullen tries not to stare at it.  “And our Lady Inquisitor?”

“Has uncovered several plots,” Cullen replies, “though perhaps not the most pressing.  I… She is becoming concerned for her ability to uncover and stop the assassin before the deed is done.”

“The Lady is young, and an idealist,” Solas says.  “However, I continue to find myself surprised at how often her optimistic view becomes truth.”

_ I think I see you quite clearly _ , Cullen remembers the Inquisitor saying.  He frowns, glancing back at the Empress.  She stands at the rail above the dance floor, resplendent in silk and gold.  The corona of gold that rises from her shoulders behind her head is ostensibly a lion’s mane—the creature’s face is carefully wrought between her shoulder blades—but Cullen suspects the way it frames her head in gold that shines like the Chantry sunburst crest is entirely intentional.  Every move, every choice, every word here is part of the Game, and the Empress is one of the greatest players.

_ Void take this entire miserable country _ , he thinks darkly.  Aloud to Solas, he says: “I’m afraid I can’t find it in myself to be quite as optimistic.”

“Nor I,” Solas says.  “I suppose we shall have to put our trust in the Inquisitor.”

Rather than comforting Cullen, this only makes him feel guilty.  He  _ should  _ trust her; she has thus far lead the Inquisition well, intelligently and strategically.  And here he is thinking that she is too naïve, too soft.  He glances at the Empress again.

He should trust Evelyn.  He will trust her.  She had already proven that he could.

* * *

The ball seems to drag by, up until the trap is sprung.  Then it is a whirlwind of action.  But in the end, Celene stands with her throne intact, her relationship with the elven ambassador Briala renewed, and an alliance with Duke Gaspard forged.  The would-be assassin Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons is dead, and the Inquisitor… The Inquisitor has vanished.  Not in anyway that would be worrying, but more in the way of someone who needs time and space to breathe.  Cullen and the other advisors deal with the consequences of stopping an assassin with lethal force in the middle of the Orlesian imperial court, allowing the Inquisitor her moment of relative peace.

Once Florianne’s remains are removed, the floor scrubbed, the nobles’ ruffled feathers soothed, and the Orlesian guards’ pride assuaged, Cullen decides to look for her.  He finds her on one of the balconies ringing the ballroom.  It had been locked during the ball, and Cullen would have walked by it without thinking to check, but his eye had caught on the gold-leafed handle.  His Templar education had trained him to watch and notice details—to catch out maleficarum or abominations who have not yet revealed themselves—and that observant corner of his mind whispers  _ wait, look _ .  He stops at the door and realizes that the lock had been melted away carefully, leaving the door mostly undamaged, but twisting the handle a little off-true.  He pauses a moment, but pushes open the door and steps out onto the balcony.

The Inquisitor’s leaning against the balustrade, looking a little wilted.  She doesn’t turn, though she must hear him approaching—the boots Josephine had commissioned with Cullen’s uniform clicked against the stone abominably, and he’d never been light of step to start with.  He stops beside her, and asks quietly: “Are you well, Inquisitor?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment, then she sighs and says: “Just tired.  It was a long day.”

Cullen fumbles a little for something to say, awkwardly setting his hands down on the balustrade.  He wishes he had his armor, or even just his sword, longing for the familiarity of the cuirass’ weight on his shoulders or the leather-wrapped hilt under his hand.  “I’m glad you were able to reconcile things between Celene, Briala, and Gaspard.”

“You are?” she says.  Her tone isn’t sharp, or mocking, just genuinely surprised.  It still makes Cullen flush with shame.

“I—” he starts, but she interrupts.

“Sorry.  I’m sorry, that was ill-spoken of me.  I didn’t mean…” she rubs a hand over her face, then grimaces.  “Shit.  My make-up.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen says.  “Ah.  Both your make-up, and your… surprise.  I wasn’t subtle about what I thought would be necessary.  I’m glad you proved me wrong.”

“Still, I just… I was surprised when you suggested letting Celene die so Gaspard could take the throne.  After Adamant, you said… You told me that is was good that I was compassionate, that I saved lives when I could.  So I thought you would think the same here.  It hurt when you didn’t.”

Cullen’s stomach lurches.  “I apologize—”

“Don’t.  You don’t have to apologize.  I realized after I left you that I was getting upset for a stupid reason.  You’re my military advisor.  You gave me your advice from a military perspective.  I shouldn’t have expected otherwise.” She looks down and runs her fingers over the stone balustrade.  “Why didn’t you think it would work to reconcile the three factions?”

Cullen sighs and runs his hand over his hair, glancing away.  “Celene and Gaspard have been at war for months.  Their armies are still engaged on the Exalted Plains, and neither side had even been contemplating a truce.  It seemed clear that they were inclined to fight until one side or the other was defeated, that they would never willingly enter an armistice.  As for Briala, I admit I knew little of her and her campaign before this.  However, knowing she was a former lover of Celene’s and the alienage purges stand between them, I assumed that there would be no chance for reconciliation.”

“That’s what I expected you thought,” she says calmly.  “From your understanding of the situation, your belief was that putting Gaspard on the throne after Celene’s assassination would be the best plan, and the one most likely to give us the result we needed.  I think what bothered me the most was that, at the beginning of this night, I would have agreed with you.”

“You… would have?” Cullen’s surprised.

“Yes,” she nods.  “I couldn’t see a way through, either.  But I was reluctant to simply let Celene die without at least trying to find another way.  It hurt that I might have to do so, and I think when I asked you your advice, I hoped that you would have seen another option.  It was foolish of me to put that expectation on you, without you knowing.  I apologize.”

Even though Cullen didn’t think she needed to apologize to him, it did make him feel better to know she wasn’t completely disappointed in him.

“Your ability to see those other options is part of why we made you Inquisitor,” he says, smiles a little when she looks up at him. “Or did you think we would have given you so much power only because of the Mark?”

Her cheeks flush and she looks away.  “I’ve never been completely certain why you made me Inquisitor.  All I knew was that I could help, so I did.”

“I admit I was uncertain about you at first.  You were an unknown, and we were giving you a lot of power in calling you the Herald of Andraste.  But you proved yourself.”

“When I sacrificed myself to win you time to evacuate,” she says, nodding.  But Cullen shakes his head.

“No, before that, I think,” he says thoughtfully.  “Though I’m not sure quite when.  But all that time spent over the War Table, listening to your arguments and orders, it presented a picture of who you are.”

Her face is very red now, and she’s staring fixedly at her feet.  There’s a brief silence, then she says: “Thank you, Commander.”

Cullen clears his throat awkwardly.  “Of course, Lady Inquisitor.”

They’re silent a moment, then she giggles slightly.  Cullen glances at her out of the corner of his eye.  She catches the look, and when he turns to look at her fully, she smiles a little crookedly.  “It seems there is a trend for our conversations.  Perhaps instead of ‘Commander’ and ‘Inquisitor’ our titles should be ‘counselor’.”

Cullen’s mouth quirks in response as he reviews their conversations back in his head and realizes that she’s right.  “Anything I can do to help, my Lady.”

“Evelyn,” she says.  “If we’re talking like this, please call me Evelyn.”

He hesitates, but her stare—the lights of the palace reflect in her eyes like starlight…  _ Maker’s breath, what are you, a poet? _ —prompts him to agree.  “Evelyn.”

His face immediately flames because he had  _ not _ intended his voice to be so rough, so low.  Maker help him, she’ll hear it and she’ll realize…

“There, was that so hard?” she asks, and he blinks at her.  Was she  _ teasing  _ him?  She was comfortable enough with him to tease?

“Um.  No?” Oh, he’s really doing well with this.  She laughs, soft breaths.

“Thank you, Cullen.  I always feel better after I’ve talked to you.”

He can’t help but to smile.  “I am always glad to listen, whenever you need.”

“Same here,” she says, and reaches out to lay her hand on his arm.  “Anytime you want to talk, I am willing to listen, too.”

_ I want to kiss you _ .  He nods, mouth clamped shut against the inappropriate words.  The memory of the weight of her hand on his arm lingers even after she draws away.

* * *

For all the worry and effort that had gone into securing peace in Orlais and support for the Inquisition, things at Skyhold didn’t change very much.  There are, perhaps, more Orlesians milling about the fortress’ great hall, and Josephine is having a little easier time getting material and personnel support for Inquisition forces, but beyond that it is business as usual.

Cullen splits most of his time between paperwork in his office and drilling his forces in the training grounds.  He doesn’t have to deal with the Orlesian politicians, that’s Josephine’s job, and with the Inquisitor out dealing with the Red Templars in Emprise du Lion, he hasn’t had to traverse the great hall to attend War Council meetings.  He can almost ignore the ‘invasion’ of frilly clothes and gleaming masks.   _ Almost. _

Some fraction of the jackals seem intent on refusing him peace—the young, unmarried fraction, largely.  With the Inquisition firmly in the good graces of the court and their influence growing daily, it would seem that he, as the Inquisition’s Commander, had attained a certain level of social value.  He is a piece in their damnable Great Game, now, one that a number of players wish to ‘capture’.  On four separate occasions, his work has been interrupted by ‘lost’ Orlesian guests wandering into his office.  He’d finally had to resort to posting a guard at each of his doors, to intercept any other wanderers.

Leliana and Josephine have been less than helpful with the situation.  Josephine had at least been apologetic, though ultimately told him that she couldn’t run herd on all their guests at all times.  Leliana had just laughed at him.  “Commander of the Inquisition, and you cannot face an Orlesian debutante?”

“Not if you don’t want to lose that debutante’s alliance,” Cullen had growled back.  Leliana had shook her head, giggling.

“Once contracts have been drawn up and their business is done here, they’ll leave Skyhold and leave you alone,” Josephine had comforted him.

“Any chance you could… hurry that along?”

“However long it takes them to agree to our terms is however long it’ll take for them to leave.”

He’s starting to think that they are delaying agreeing to terms just so they can torment him.  Could negotiating a contract with the Inquisition really take weeks?  Surely  _ some  _ of them would have come to an agreement with Josephine in that time.  But no, there seems no respite in sight.  He continues to be hounded.

_ At least _ , he thinks sourly,  _ they don’t mistake  _ you _ for a servant. _

Solas had abandoned his rotunda for the last week, seeking refuge in a small, hidden library in the bowels of Skyhold.  The Orlesians had been harassing him with orders and requests, seeing his ears and thinking only ‘servant.’  In truth, Cullen believes they are all lucky Solas has kept hold of his temper and not set them aflame.  He’s not sure he would have been so disciplined, had he been in the elf’s place.

In fact, he’s not sure he won’t set them aflame even now.  He might not be a mage, but he’s reasonably certain he could persuade Sera to help, perhaps with some fire arrows.  Setting nobles on fire seems something tailored to her interests.

Cullen sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting the report he’d been reading drop to his desktop.  The edge of a headache scrapes against the inside of his skull, threatening to bloom into the nauseating, incapacitating pain of a migraine.  The alchemical candle on his desk—designed to burn brighter, cleaner, and steadier than a traditional tallow taper—seemed  _ too  _ bright all the sudden, a lance of white pain stabbing into his eyes.

Cullen hesitates a bare moment, then slides open a drawer in his desk.  It had once contained his lyrium kit, but after he’d smashed it to pieces and the Inquisitor had strengthened his resolve to quit the stuff, the drawer had lain empty.  Then, after the Inquisitor had visited him once only to find him nearly crippled with the pain of a migraine, the drawer had been stocked with a rack of powerful pain potions that she’d bullied Adan into brewing.

“Don’t let yourself rely on these too much,” she’d warned him.  “They are not without their side effects.  Take them too often, and it causes arrhythmia of the heart.  So, don’t.”

He’d taken the warning to heart, appropriately enough.  It helps that he doesn’t like the idea of taking potions.  Many health potions use embrium in them, and the taste is too evocative of a philter for comfort, so he avoids them whenever possible.  This will only be the second time he takes the tincture, in about a month’s span.

The potion is a faintly pink liquid that smells almost sickly sweet when he uncorks the small phial.  Bizarrely—or perhaps not so bizarrely, considering alchemy is at work behind the stuff—it tastes spicy, warming his mouth and throat as he swallows it down.  The embrium is a slight aftertaste, like the smell of petrichor, somehow  _ green _ .  Cullen grimaces and takes a couple large mouthfuls of water from a skin hanging off the corner of his desk, to wash away the taste.

It does its job, though, and only a few moments later, the headache has receded and he no longer squints against the candlelight.  He picks up the reports again, and pulls out his duty roster.  Rylen’s men had finally finished dealing with the varghests that had been harassing them out at Griffon Wing Keep.  That means there are a score more soldiers available to root out Venatori in the Western Approach.

Cullen makes some notations, then pulls a sheet of parchment out to write a response to his second-in-command.  Rylen has a good head on his shoulders, and doubtless is already organizing their troops in the Western Approach to do exactly what Cullen will tell him to do, but Cullen needs to make the orders official.  He also needs to inform Rylen of the supply convoy that had set out from Val Royeaux, bringing much-needed equipment and materials to the desert fortress.  With the continued Venatori presence (thank the Maker the Darkspawn have already been taken care of), Rylen’s troops will have to be vigilant so the convoy arrives safely.

He’s scratching out a missive when there’s a brisk rap on his door, the one that leads to the keep proper.  Finishing up the last bit of the message to Rylen, Cullen calls out: “Enter!”

The hinges creak as the door opens, then closes.  Cullen signs his name to the parchment and sets it aside for the ink to dry, then looks up.  “Yes, what—Inquisitor!”  

He jerks up from his seat, startled.  Evelyn smiles wanly at him.  “You’re back early.  We weren’t expecting you for another couple of days.”

“We made good time coming back,” she replies.  There’s something hesitant in her voice.  Cullen tries to parse it, as she steps closer, stares at the top of his desk.  “Are you busy?”

“Ah, no,” he says, fumbling to wipe clean the nib of his quill and set it aside.  “Please, have a seat.”

She does, folding herself down onto the chair with a sort of deliberate care that makes worry spike in him.  He watches her a moment, cataloging every movement, the lines of her clothes.  He doesn’t see any bandages, or stiffness in the way she moves, so if she’d been injured, it is long healed.  She’s in her casual clothes, no armor, and her hair is wet.  She’d probably come straight from bathing the travel dust away.  What could be so important that she needs to speak with him so soon after returning?  He waits for her to start, to say what brought her out to his office, but she just sits there staring at the desktop.  He opens his mouth, but she beats him to the punch: “How are you?”

“Um,” he says, a little flustered at having the question he’d intended to ask her suddenly thrown at him.  “I’m well, thank you.  The potions you gave me for the headaches work well.”

“You haven’t been using them very often, have you?”

“I tend not to use potions at all, if I can.  I’ve taken one of yours just twice.”

“Good,” she says, nodding.  Cullen watches her, brow furrowed.

“Are  _ you  _ alright?” he asks finally, as she continues to stare with a sort of blank look at the top of his desk.

“I…” she says, then stops.  Her mouth works, like the words are stuck in her throat.  She doesn’t seem able to look at him.  “Something happened at Suledin Keep that… that really bothered me.  And I wanted to speak to you because, well, because talking to you always helps, like I’ve said before.  And also… it kind of involves you.”

“Involves me?  How—Oh.”  He remembers the reports that had come out of Emprise du Lion.  His heart sinks a little.  “Red Templars?”

“Yes,” she replies.  She’s frowning.  “There… was a demon.  In Suledin Keep.  Apparently, he—it—had been… cultivating the Red Templars.”

“Cultivating?”  The phrasing makes the small hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stand up.

“There was one Red Templar who had refused the demon’s offers.  He… I spoke to him briefly before he died from the red lyrium.  He described it like a garden.  They were the demon’s garden, and it watched over the growth of the red lyrium within them.  It couldn’t grow too fast, nor too slow.”  She swallows dryly, throat clicking.  “And as it drove them crazy, the demon would offer them a deal.  Give in to him, and he would take the red out of their bodies.  Free them from the pain.”

“Is that what the Red Templars have done?  All of them?  Made a deal with a demon?” Cullen’s voice is sharp with disgust and horror.

“I think so,” she replies, and he thinks she’s fighting back tears.  She blinks rapidly, breathes slowly in through her nose, out through her mouth.  “But of course it was a false deal.  He stabilized them, but the corrupt lyrium still drove them mad and then they were his pawns, and Corypheus’.  And if they refused him, they died from the red lyrium that grew through their bodies.”

“Like what you saw in Redcliffe, in the other future,” he guesses.  She shudders.

“Yes.”

“And the connection to me…?”

She wets her lips.  “Every time I face the Red Templars, I wonder how many truly chose their path.  Why did they take the red lyrium?  Why did they blindly follow orders that went against the Order’s original purpose?  Surely there had to have been more men like you in their ranks.”

Cullen thinks of the man he’d been after Kinloch, the man he’d been in Kirkwall.  “That may not have made a difference.  I… had generally been an exemplary Templar until very recently.  At any other time, I probably would have followed what my superiors told me.”

“Yes,” she says.  “But you never would have made a deal with a demon.  That Red Templar in Suledin Keep could have been you.”

“Yes,” he says, feeling a little sick.  “Under different circumstances… yes, I must admit that’s true.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.  “I’m glad you left the Order.  I’m glad you quit lyrium.  I’m glad you’re here.”

Even though they had been slowly heading towards a sort of friendship, the level of emotion in her voice, how obviously genuine her relief is, strikes Cullen dumb.  He stares at her, knowing his face must be a study in surprise.  She finally looks up at him, expression so very open.  “I never thought I could care about a Templar.  Or even a former Templar.  I never thought I could be friends with one of you.  But when I was standing over that Red Templar, listening to his dying words, I thought ‘this could have been Cullen’ and I was suddenly  _ so afraid _ .  I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.  You’re the only one I can talk to like this.”

Cullen’s surprise compounds.  “But I thought you were close to Dorian?  And Varric?  And Cassandra?”

He shuts himself up before he just lists all her usual companions.  She smiles tremulously.  “I am.  They are my friends, but… I think you’re the only one who would understand.   _ Really _ understand.  You know what Circles are like.  You’ve seen the bad of both sides.  And we’re both leaders, though the scale is different—you lead the soldiers, I lead the Inquisition.  And you’re honest with me, and kind.”

_ Not completely honest _ , he thinks to himself.   _ There is one secret I keep from you. _

“I am honored,” he says aloud, “that you think of me as a friend.”

“I do,” she says, earnestly, peering at him.  “Truly.”

The tips of his ears are burning, and he’s almost certain his face is bright red.  He stammers something—he doesn’t think it’s even close to coherent.  She blinks once, twice, then her own face flushes darkly and she ducks her head to stare at her lap.  “I—I... um… Thank you, as usual, for listening, Comman—Cullen.”

“Of course.  I… I hope it helped?”

“Oh, yes.  I mostly just needed to see that you were well,” she assures him quickly, then her eyes widen and her mouth shuts with a click.  “Um!”

“W-well, I am quite well, thanks to you,” Cullen says.

“G-good!  Yes.  Um.  You’re welcome.”  She shoots suddenly to her feet, startling Cullen so that he jumps and knocks his knee against the leg of his desk, rattling it.  “Are you alright?”

“Fine!” he nearly yelps.  “I’m fine.”

“Right.  Then, um, back to work,” Evelyn says, face very darkly flushed by now.  Cullen thinks his face might have passed red and gone to purple.

“Of course.  Good day, Inquisitor,” he says.

“Good day,” she replies with a jerky nod, and then she books it for the door.  Cullen is left sitting at his desk, confused, flustered, and a little hopeful.


End file.
